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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112685">Unfinished symphonies</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle'>isa_belle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dream smp [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, but not that much comfort tbh, philza needs to be a parent, tommy needs a hug :(</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:54:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,353</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28112685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/isa_belle/pseuds/isa_belle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil stands a foot behind. Phil stands a thousand miles away.</p><p>Or, what happened after</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dave | Technoblade &amp; Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson, TommyInnit &amp; Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot &amp; Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot &amp; TommyInnit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Dream smp [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2068152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>189</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Unfinished symphonies</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>im very late to this party but i showed up with passion and i think that’s what counts.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil stands a foot behind. Phil stands a thousand miles away. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">There’s a body at his feet, he knows. There’s a body at his feet and he put it there. There’s a body at his feet and he put it there and it’s his </span> <em> <span class="s2">son</span> </em> <span class="s1">. </span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">He held him for a while, after it was done. Sword still plunged in his chest. </span> <em> <span class="s2">His</span> </em> <span class="s1"> sword. If he really tried he could convince himself it was a hug. But then he’d smell the ash in the air, or the metallic twang of blood. </span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">  </span> <em> <span class="s2"> Kill me</span><span class="s1">, </span> <span class="s2">Phil</span> </em> <span class="s1">. He’d said. With this crazed flicker in his eyes. Like some part of the boy he used to know clawed its way out and was begging for release. </span> <em> <span class="s2">Killza</span></em><span class="s1">, like it was some sort of joke, some cruel and twisted joke. </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the sword hit the stone floor it clattered with an echo of near finality. Phil had a task, Phil had to complete it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The hilt was cold in his hand, metal against skin. Wilbur was smiling, a bent and fucked looking thing. His arms wide, jacket hanging still. The bombs left a static silence in the air, just the ringing of ears and the falling of dust. Somewhere behind him, he heard Tommy, maybe, saying his name like it was the one thing he still had faith in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Wilbur spoke, his voice edged on manic. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A parent is supposed to do what’s best for their child. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He ran the blade through Wilbur’s chest. He heard Tommy scream.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And then he held his fucking son. Cupped the back of his head and held him in his arms like he was a boy again, afraid of a rainstorm. Not a man ravaged by the cruelties of the world. Not a man so broken he had become one of them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The feeling isn’t really something that’s describable. There’s no words that can be put to it. Like the universe collapsing around you. And even that doesn’t even come close to the suffocating ache. The mirror pain he felt in his own chest. He heard himself crying. Felt his hands shake and his throat burn, the roughness of the ground scraping his knees. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He was drowning on land. Head underneath the blue. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ash mixed with tears and dirt mixed with sweat and blood. Anger seeped into sorrow and regret and nostalgia and grief. Moments blended together, flashes became seconds became minutes. And then more fire. More echoing booms and empty silences. Rattling of skulls and fizzles of fireworks. Ears ringing. Terrified cries. Techno on a hill, telling Tommy to die like a hero. Crunch of debris beneath a hundred boots. A family in pieces, a picture frame shattered on the floor. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was mercy that made him do it in the end. Or that’s what he’ll tell himself to sleep at night. He stabbed his son through to save him the pain of going on. And to stop him from causing anymore damage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’s a body at his feet and Philza put it there and he had no choice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The fighting reached a point. Phil had to leave him for a moment. Walking away was-difficult, to say the least. But Tommy was still down there and Tommy was in danger and Phil had to protect what he had left. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But the battle is over now. And it’s time to count the dead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tommy charges through the debris with lightning speed, grabbing at rocks with his hands and pulling himself up and up, paying hardly any mind at all to the way he’s got more blood outside his body than in it. There’s a static energy around him. A forcefield of passion, of despaired panic and anger. It’s hard to stand near, it knocks you back and it burns at the edges. An inferno. Tommy was always a little spitfire. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When he pulls himself into the clearing he doesn’t spare a moment to rest. There’s an instance where they stand opposite each other. An infinity of space and dust and broken stone between them. Tommy stands atop the rubble and looks like a man. Tommy stands atop the rubble and looks like a child who’s had to grow too fast. Tommy stands atop the rubble and stares at the body just across it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He pays Phil a pained glance before sprinting towards it, electricity in his step. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil forgets how to breathe. Or he’s been forgetting since his blade pierced Wilbur’s skin. His lungs sit still in his chest, his ribs ache and burn and ash stings his eyes. But all he can do is watch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tommy falls instantly to his knees at Wilbur’s side. Grabbing his wrist and checking for a pulse with crazed movements that have acertain practiced flourish to them that makes Phil sick to his stomach. The efficiency of a soldier. His chest heaves, and Phil can see little tears pricking the corners of his blue blue eyes. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">“Wake up.” He says, a command. And with a start, Phil realizes he’s talking to Wil. “You don’t get to just get out of this.” He’s angry, that much is clear. His voice tears through his throat. “Take the blame Wilbur! Wake up and own up to your shit! Please. Just wake up. You were supposed to be better. </span> <em> <span class="s2">We won</span> </em> <span class="s1">.”</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">His voice is dancing, dipping and twirling through rage and bitterness and sorrow and denial. It’s a tragic thing to see. It’s a thing a father should never have to see. Tommy exhales roughly. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re a coward!” He spits, slams his fist against the gravel. And Phil feels his heart split in two at the sound. The flesh inside his chest feels raw and sick. “You’re a bloody fucking coward! We’d done it! We’d done it and you had to go and-and fuck it up. You promised me that we were gonna be okay, Wil. You fucking prick. You lying bastard! You told me-“ his voice breaks, a delicate thing, decreasing in volume before sputtering out. A flame in the wind. He exhales shakily, letting his forehead fall onto Wilbur’s chest, his hand against the sword wound like it can stanch the blood that’s already soaking through his shirt. Phil can see the tears that drip from his eyes, silent. He can see Tommy’s fist tremble at his side. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And gods. Where has Phil been? The kids he left behind are not the ones he’s got now. They’re broken and tired and heavy and dead. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil stands a foot behind. Phil stands a thousand miles away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He reaches out a hand, fingers almost grazing Tommy’s back. There’s comfort in the gesture. As much as you can provide. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tommy holds his brother, muttering angrily. Tears stream down his face, making little pathways through the dirt and blood on his cheeks. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tommy.” Phil makes himself speak. He can’t take this. Tommy shouldn’t have to sit there like this. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tommy looks to him, still holding onto Wil like a lifeline. “Why did you do it?” His voice is ragged. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil sighs, grief and guilt swimming in him. “He asked me to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Tommy’s face falls, but not as much as he expected it to. Like he took a blow that hurt like hell, but which he somehow knew was coming. That must mean something awful, mustn’t it? What had Wilbur done? What had </span> <span class="s2"><em>he</em> </span> <span class="s1">done?</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tommy nods and he’s left with that same juxtaposition, the contradiction of Tommy and himself. Such a grown nod. Such a young face. His eyes have seen war. But his look reeks of youth. Bandana around his neck and nasty scar across his cheek, white with time. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil has made a mistake. Phil has made many. He digs his shoes into the dirt, grinding pieces of stone. Now is not a time to dedicate to him. He kneels beside Tommy. He delicately reaches around the bloodied arms of tragic embrace. He shuts Wil’s eyes, wraps a loose arm around his living son. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Phil sits in a tangle of limbs and bodies. Phil sits between a beating heart and a still one. Phil sits a thousand miles away. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>thanks for reading! if you liked it, leave a comment! they genuinely make my day :)</p><p>Byee</p></blockquote></div></div>
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